


A Telltale Heart

by dwell_the_brave



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Bittersweet Ending, M/M, The AU no one asked for, automatons, marvel AU, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-22 20:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18534868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwell_the_brave/pseuds/dwell_the_brave
Summary: Once upon a time, long ago in a forgotten part of France, there was a beautiful castle, built in a forest near to a small village.Clint has grown up with the story of the Monster in the forest. If you stray too far, he will take you further into the forest and you will never return. When his hunting partner goes missing one day, Clint follows her and finds himself making a bargain with a Beast.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the Beauty & the Beast AU no one asked for, but that [Sara Holmes](http://captn-sara-holmes.tumblr.com/) supported me in writing! 
> 
> Sorry to disappoint but there are no singing and dancing numbers in this fic.

**{Chapter 1}**

Once upon a time, long ago in a forgotten part of France, there was a beautiful castle, built in a forest near to a small village. Living in the Castle was a young and handsome Prince, and his Father. They wanted for nothing, and entertained the rich and powerful with balls and hunting parties, and the Castle was filled with the finest things. The Prince’s Father fancied himself an Inventor and Alchemist, and was obsessed with prolonging life, his obsession worsening after the tragic passing of the Prince’s Mother. He experimented with machinery and potions, and the servants whispered across the tavern hearth about the Mad Master, and his son who turned a blind eye to the missing villagers. 

On one fine but cold Winters day, the Prince spotted a beautiful stag grazing on the edge of the woods that surrounded the castle. He gathered his men and set off after it, determined to hunt it and hang it’s antlers on his wall. While chasing after the stag, his horse slipped on ice and the Prince fell, and was mortally wounded. His Father, panicked and grief stricken, used what he had learned in his gruesome experiments on his son, determined to keep his son alive. Exhausted after all his efforts, he fell into a fitful sleep, unsure if his son would still be alive in the morning. 

In the deepest darkest part of the night, a strange and beautiful woman slipped into the room, waking up the Prince while his Father slept on. Desperate, and feeling his life slipping from his grasp, the Prince begged for her help. The stranger told the Prince that the stag he had tried to hunt down was her lover, so why should she let him live? The Prince pleaded ignorance and asked that she spare his life for the sake of the ones he loved. The woman, unconvinced of the purity of his heart, asked what he would offer her in return. The Prince said all his riches and finery were hers, if she were to save him. She thought on this, and declined his offer, for she was an Enchantress, and gold and diamonds meant nothing to her. The Prince begged her again, asking him to save his life if not for him, then for his Father, who would die of grief himself if his son passed away. The Enchantress agreed, though she told the Prince that his Father would regret the choices he had made, and the actions he had taken to save his son’s life. 

With a wave of her hand, the machinery that the Prince’s Father had implanted into and onto his body became one with his skin and muscle, causing the Prince excruciating pain. The Enchantress told him that the price for this deal was the agony he would live with every day, and it would only alleviate when he fell in love, and was loved in return.

“As, after all, love is a cure to all,” 

When the Prince’s Father awoke in the morning, his son was alive, but forever changed. Repulsed by his son’s Monstrous appearance, he demanded that the Castle be locked up, and that no one would enter or leave. As time wore on, the Prince did not age, though those around him slowly withered and died. In his final years, the Prince’s Father locked himself away in his Workshop, determined to create companions for his immortal son. He made many and sent them to care for his son, and then he too died, leaving the Prince well and truly alone in his once beautiful Castle, forever a Monster. 

**{#}**

They had all been told the story of the Monster in the Castle in the Forest. Wander too far and he’ll snatch you away, and you will be lost forever! Clint’s mother had told them this story when they were little boys, and he had been terrified, the thin blanket he slept under pulled up to his eyes as the weak candlelight made his Mother’s shadow long and thin against the rough walls. Barney had laughed and snarled and tugged at the blanket until Clint had cried and Mother had shushed them and tucked them into their beds. He pulled her close as she leaned down to kiss his forehead.

“Mama, is the Prince truly a Monster?” he asked, and she smiled and pushed his hair back from his forehead.

“My sweet Clint, my darling boy. No, I do not believe that the Prince is a Monster. He is alone and in pain, and this can make a man do Monstrous things. But that does not make him a Monster,” she murmured to him, her hand stilling as the wooden door to their home was flung open by their Father, stumbling home, drunk from the weak ale of the tavern. 

Maybe Clint had been afraid of the story, but he knew who the real Monsters were. That night, he had pulled the thin blankets over his head and clamped his hands over his ears and tried to ignore his Mother’s sobbing and his Father’s shouts, and he dreamed of the handsome Prince, wandering lonely through his empty Castle. 

**{#}**

Ten years later, and the story still echoed around their small village. In his morning stroll around their village square, his bow slung over his shoulder, his quiver of roughly-hewn arrows on his back, Clint overheard the Baker telling a group of scruffy young boys that if they don’t stop rough-housing, the Monster from the Castle will snatch them away at night and make them soldiers in his Monstrous army.

“Come, _Monsieur_ , I think these boys rather like the sound of being Monsters,” Clint interrupted, winking at the oldest, Teddy, who gave him a toothy grin. The Baker looked outraged, setting down his tray of baked goods on the low stone wall next to him. 

“I shouldn’t expect proper reverence of the old tales from you, Clint Barton!” he said, his moustache bristling and Clint raised an eyebrow at him. “Why, your Father-,” the Baker began, but Clint cut him off.

“- is a drunkard who spends most of his time licking the bottom of _Monsieur_ Thénardier’s ale barrels, I’m well aware,” he said cooly and a purple flush rose on the Baker’s cheeks. Clint looked the top of the shorter man’s head and nodded. “Isn’t that smoke rising from your bread oven?” he asked and with a start, the Baker turned on his heel and disappeared into his shop, leaving Clint alone in front of the horde of little boys, though he could see Kamala and America hiding in their group, their longer hair tucked under rough caps. He surveyed them, their smudged noses and scuffed knees, and grinned. 

“Off with you, before I tell _Monsieur_ Fournier about the iced bun in Tommy’s pocket,” he said, and with a yell the children scattered away. Clint huffed a laugh and watched them go, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Once the children were out of sight, he snuck a glance over his shoulder and slipped a roll off the tray the Baker had left behind him, before making his way across the square towards path to the forest. 

The day was bright and warm, the edge of summer just grazing their small village, and Clint looked forward to a day hunting in the woods with young Kate Bishop. As his Father was too drunk to work these days, and Barney had joined the King’s army and disappeared into battle, Clint was left to eek out a living to keep himself and his Father alive, and he did this by hunting. He made sure to only kill what he would need, and what little he could sell, and often walked past deers and boars without raising his bow. He was respected by many for this, but not by all. 

He had been joined a couple of years ago during his hunting days by Kate Bishop, one of the village girls. She was her parents only child, and her father was infirm while her mother took in laundry and sewing just to see them by. Clint had found her one day, barely ten years ago, shivering while sitting in a tree, a badly made bow in her hands, trying to shoot something, anything to take home to her family. Clint had taken her under his wing, giving her the bows he had outgrown and teaching her to be a skilled hunter. It was her that he was going to meet now, to spend the afternoon tracking down a flock of pheasants they had seen two days prior. 

“Barton!” he heard someone shout, and he rolled his eyes. He recognised that voice, because it grated on him every day.

“ _Bonjour_ Rumlow,” Clint murmured, turning slowly to face the leader of the village’s other hunting party. Brock Rumlow and his band of miscreants were violent and prone to shooting at anything that moved in the woods (nearly catching Clint or Kate a few times). They killed far more than they needed and the wild pig population in the woods was nearly decimated because of them, and Clint made an extra effort to bring the few remaining pigs food when he could. 

“Will you be joining our hunting party today?” Rumlow asked, taking a step forward with a swagger, his hands on his hips. Clint looked him up and down and quirked an eyebrow. 

“Like always, Rumlow, not today,” he said and the gang behind Rumlow looked unimpressed. Rumlow moved closer.

“You’re the best marksman in the village, Barton, surely you can understand that we’d be better off working together than apart?” he asked and Clint grimaced as Rumlow’s sour breath wafted across his cheek. 

“As I said, Rumlow, not today. And probably not tomorrow, or the day after either,” Clint said, slipping away and turning back towards the path to the forest. He heard Rumlow let out a low rumble of anger behind him, but ignored it. Surely his lackeys would tend to his hurt feelings.

“Kate’s out there, by the way!” Rumlow shouted after him, and Clint stopped. He looked over his shoulder at Rumlow.

“What?” he asked, and Rumlow grinned, a nasty smile that bared his teeth. 

“Your girl, your Katie. She went into the woods, following some pathetic pheasants. Last I saw, she was headed to the Dark Woods, and you know it is forbidden,” he said in a mocking tone, and the pit of Clint’s stomach dropped away. The Dark Woods was forbidden, no one ever went there and came back. 

Ignoring Rumlow’s shouts Clint raced around the edge of the village, reaching the wooden shack his family had called home for years. He flung open the door and whistled, and a small ‘ _arf_ ’ greeted him, before Lucky appeared before him, his tail wagging.

“Come on, we’ve got to find Kate!” Clint said, grabbing another handful of his own homemade arrows and jamming them into the quiver, ignoring the risk of blunting the points. He reached for a dagger he kept tuckedinto a cupboard by the door, and tucked it into his boot, before stepping back and ushering Lucky out of the building. He could hear his Father’s muffled snores from further in the gloom of the cabin, and he paused for a second, debating saying goodbye before shaking his head and shutting the door. Lucky lopping behind him, he set off at a run for the woods. 

He picked his way across the well-worn path, shouting out Kate’s name at regular intervals, Lucky barking along with him, nose to the air. The further they went into the woods, the darker it became, the trees overhead forming a canopy above them. A chill swept through the air and Clint shivered, wishing he had grabbed a cloak to wear to keep himself warm. Lucky barked again and they kept pressing on.

“KATE!” Clint shouted, what felt like hours later. He was in parts of the woods he had never explored before, and the trees were unfamiliar to him. They looked starved, if trees could be, with thin trunks and jagged pointy branches, giving them a menacing air. They were truly in the Dark Woods now. 

Behind him, he heard twigs snap, and he paused, holding his hand up to stop Lucky, who responded to the silent command by stopping dead in his tracks, his tail between his legs. Clint slowly turned and scanned the woodland around him. Here and there dark shadows passed between the trees and the hairs on the back of Clint’s neck stood up. _Wolves_.

“Stay close, Lucky,” he said, and the dog whimpered and plastered itself to his leg, keeping up with every step he took. He carefully pulled his bow over his head and nocked an arrow, one hand keeping the tension as he moved carefully onwards, the wolves still prowling behind him. Up ahead he could see the trees start to clear, and Clint knew that they had a better chance of coming out of this alive if they reached that clearing. 

There was a snarl and then one of the wolves made to pounce. “GO!” Clint shouted and Lucky took off at a run, barking and growling as he charged for the clearing, Clint right behind him. The wolves howled and snapped as he ran flat out to get away from them, and he felt the teeth of one graze the back of his boot as he managed to take a step just quick enough. “GO LUCKY, GO!” he yelled at the dog and Lucky kept running, his golden fur rippling in the cold wind that had whipped up as they ran, and Clint squinted his eyes against the bitter chill, his cheeks stinging and the air burning in his legs.

With a final push, they broke free of the trees, though the wolves still followed. Turning and running half-backwards, trusting Lucky to pull him out of the way if he was about to run into a wall, he shot an arrow at one of the wolves, aiming to startle it rather than kill it, and the arrow landed right between it’s front legs, causing it to skid to a stop in the snow, snarling with surprise. 

He fired off a few more, hoping the scare them away, following Lucky’s barks to track the path behind him, until something hit the back of his legs. With a cry of shock, Clint fell over a low wall, landing on his back in what felt like a flowerbed. He scrambled to his feet, reaching for another arrow, but stopped. The wolves had stopped dead in their tracks, whimpering and shifting uncomfortably as a pack, not crossing the barrier the wall made. Lucky was whinging and pressing anxiously against his legs, but the wolves didn’t move any further forwards and in fact, after a few moments of waiting, began to retreat into the woods. Clint let out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding, and let his bow drop. Strange behaviour, for wolves. 

With the wolves gone, he took a moment to look around at his surroundings. He looked to be on the edge of a large but overgrown garden. And white haze seemed to lie across it, and when Clint looked down at his arms, he was surprised to see small snowflakes sat on the fabric, slowly melting on it. 

“Snow?" he asked no one, and Lucky whinged in response. He looked down at the dog, who cocked his head. “In April?” he continued and Lucky’s ears flexed back. Clint looked around again, and noticed that the snow seemed to be falling harder than it had only moments ago. He could see the large shadow of a building in the distance, and he nodded in it’s direction. “Let’s go, Lucky. If we’re lucky, they might have a warm hearth we can share,” he said and Lucky huffed in response, picking himself up and lopping towards the building. 

As they made their way through the sprawling gardens, Clint took in his surroundings. There were rabbits still hopping about, despite the snow, nibbling at tufts of green grass that sprung up in patches through the frost. A peacock swaggered by, his plume unfurled, the colours somewhat muted without the sun shining on him. A bit further through the mist, Clint could see deer grazing on the edge of the woods, and a magnificent stag was among them, his antlers curved and long. They continued through what looked like a vineyard, though the vines were long since dead, and through another decorative garden, a cracked stone fountain in the middle of it, until the shadow of the building evolved to show a looming castle, it’s towers and turrets so high that Clint couldn’t see the top of them. Here and there, dim light shone through the windows, and while it certainly didn’t look _welcoming_ by any means, it was sure to be warmer inside than out. 

With a shudder, Clint realised how cold he was and he looked down to see that even Lucky was shivering against the chill that crept over the gardens. They pressed on until they were at the foot of a sweeping stone staircase, and Clint picked his way up the icy steps, Lucky scrambling after him.

The large oak doors were easily the height of two men, and covered in elaborate carvings, showing nymphs frolicking over a woodland scene. Clint raised his fist and knocked, his bow lose in his hand at his side. 

The sound echoed into the room beyond the door, but there was no answering footsteps. Even after a minute or two waiting, no one seemed to be coming to open the door. He looked down at Lucky, who quirked an ear at him, and then he made up his mind. He grasped the wrong iron handle of the door and pushed, and slowly the door creaked open.

The creak seemed to fill up the vast space behind the door. A once-magnificent foyer lay before them as they entered, though it now looked as though it had been abandoned long ago. The ornate chandeliers that hung above them were dripping in cobwebs and dust, and the marble flooring beneath their feet was cracked in places, as though something had fallen on it from a great height. 

“Hello?" Clint called out, glancing around the murky room. A beautiful marble staircase swept up from the centre of the room and split into two, each side leading to different areas of the castle. Clint cautiously looked around and then placed his hand on the banister of the staircase, starting to climb. From the bottom of the stairs, Lucky whimpered but didn’t follow him. “Lucky, come on!” he called back to the dog, but Lucky only whinged and flattened his ears back against his head in worry. Clint rolled his eyes, and continued climbing. 

From the depths of the dimly lit corridors, he could hear whispering, which made him pause. The Castle had the air of being empty, which was unnerving, but then to hear whispers… Part of him was convinced that it was the wind whistling through cracks in the stone, but no, these were voices - even if they didn’t sound entirely human. He followed the whispers, though he had no idea where they would lead him, winding up and up what seemed to be the tallest tower in the castle. 

Though the whispers were still quiet and faint, he heard another voice join them, a young girl pleading to be released. “Kate!” Clint shouted, calling to her and there was a pause before she responded.

“Clint!” he heard her cry back, and he took off at a run, taking the narrow stone steps two at a time, his thighs burning by the time he reached the top of the flight of stairs. There, in a narrow cell built into the stone walls, was Kate, her pale hands wrapped around the iron bars in front of her. She was alone.

“Kate, thank God!” Clint said, dropping to his knees in front of her, his bow clattering to the floor, partially to get his breath back and partially to wrap his hands around her own. She was chilled to the touch and her lips were tinted blue, but she didn’t look grateful to see him. No, she looked horrified. 

“Clint, what are you doing here?” she asked, her teeth chattering and Clint wrestled his rough tunic over his head without dislodging his quiver, leaving him in only his thin undershirt, and passing it through the bars for Kate. She shrugged it on gratefully.

“Finding you! Why are you in a cell?” he asked, but she ignored his question, her eyes darting frantically around.

“You need to go, Clint. Go back to the village, go home, it’s not safe here! The Monster, Clint, he’s real!” she said and Clint looked at her, askance. 

“The Monster from the fairy tale?” he asked, scanning her face. She didn’t look like she had taken a blow to the head. 

“Yes! He’s real, Clint!” she told him desperately, her thin fingers pressed over his until her knuckles blanched. “Go, Clint, before he finds you!” she begged him and Clint shook his head.

“No, I’m not leaving you here. There must be a way to open this cell,” he said, standing up and taking a step back in the narrow space around him, scanning the stones. There didn’t seem to be a lock on the bars, and there was no other obvious way that the doors opened. Clint was stumped. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and jammed it in the joint of the bars to the wall, pressing his weight against it until the shaft snapped with a _crack_. His arrowhead fell to the floor on Kate’s side of the cell, and she reached for it with one hand, the other holding tight to the bar in front of her

“It’s no use, Clint. Please, leave me. Go home, back to your Father, he needs you,” she said, though her bottom lip quivered with every word she spoke, and it looked like tears were threatening to spill over. She sniffed and roughly wiped at her face with the back of her hand, the arrowhead just barely missing her cheek. 

Clint knelt down before her again, and shook his head.

“Not as much as your parents need you,” he said quietly and she suppressed a sob. “What made you come here, Kate? What were you following?” he asked and she shook her head, her black hair falling loose from the rough braid she had tied it in.

“A stag. A beautiful stag,” she told him, and then she shook her head frantically when she noticed the look on his face. “I didn’t want to kill it! I just wanted to watch it, just for a while,” she said sadly, sounding every of her fourteen years. Clint wrapped his hands arounds hers again.

“We must get you out of here,” he told her. Kate glanced over his shoulder and froze, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Poachers must be imprisoned,” came a rough, deep voice from behind him. Clint slowly turned, his hand still tight around Kate’s. The figure was ensconced in the shadows of the tower, but Clint could just about see a man roughly his height, with broad shoulders and billowing cape. 

“She isn’t a poacher!” he replied, surprised at how steady his voice sounded. “You heard her - she only wanted to see the stag, not kill it,” he said and there was a rumble of a pitiless laugh. 

“Few want to only watch animals,” the other man said, his voice cracked with disuse. He moved and there was a flash of light as the weak sunlight from the high window in Kate’s cell caught something hanging by his side. A sword? A dagger? Clint tried to subtly reach for his own dagger in his boot, trying not to draw attention to himself. 

"Come into the light,” Clint said, his hand finally closing around the hilt of the dagger. The shadowed man shifted, as though started by the question, and then slowly stepped into the weak light that came from Kate’s cell window. 

At first glance, there was nothing strange about him. He was very pale and gaunt, with dark hair tied back loosely from his face, and eyes like the winter sky outside, cold and grey. But the light caught something at his side again, and Clint squinted at it, before rearing back in horror. 

His arm was made of metal.

He was both horrifying and beautiful at once. He had a face that would have inspired a thousand artists, but the monstrous thing, hanging where a flesh and bone arm should be, made Clint want to wretch. Some where in his mind, his Mother whispered the Prince’s fairytale, but Clint tried to ignore it. Surely, it couldn’t be? 

“Let her go,” Clint said, his voice not wavering. The Monster - the man in front of him - looked over him cooly and then glanced behind him at Kate.

“As I said. she is a poacher. She must be punished,” he said, his voice catching, his mouth moving awkwardly like he had not spoken aloud for a very long time. Clint shook his head, sitting back on his haunches, his hand reaching for Kate’s between the bars.

“She’s a _child_. A child who is half-starved and scared! Please, let her go,” Clint said, half-begging, his eyes scanning the man’s face for any flicker of sympathy. He thought for a second, scrambling for another bargaining chip, before realisation sunk in. “Take me instead,” he burst out and Kate’s hand wrapped around his wrist, desperate and tight.

“What? No!” she exclaimed, but the man tilted his head, intrigued at least by Clint’s offer.

“You would take her place? Stay here with me in my Castle, for the rest of your days?” he said quietly, almost hopefully, and Clint nodded, swallowing his fear.

“If you will let her leave this place unharmed, then yes. I will stay here, forever,” he said and Kate’s fingers tightened to the point that her rough nails were digging into his skin around his wrist. As much as it hurt, he didn’t want her to let go.

The man considered Clint’s proposal, his eyes distant and trained on some unseen thing, before he nodded once, firmly.

“Very well. She will go free. You will stay here,” he said, reaching for the stone wall by the cell. From the cracks between the stones he pulled free a slim wrought iron handle and pulled it downwards - Kate’s cell door swung open, and Clint found himself on his feet and pulling Kate into a hug before he could even think about it.

“Look after my father,” he whispered into her hair and Kate sobbed and wrapped her arms around him tighter.

“You must leave, now,” the man said to Kate, sounding impatient. He wrapped his hand, his human one, around the top of her arm and pulled her away from Clint. She gave a cry of distress and when Clint went to reach for her again, he was stopped by an arm across his chest - the metal one. He flinched and stumbled backwards into the cell, and with one smooth movement, the man had pushed the handle back up and the cell doors swung shut. Clint lurched forward and pressed his face to the bars, almost wishing that he could slip through them.

“Take Lucky! Kate, take Lucky! He’ll lead you home!” he shouted after the retreating pair, and from the dim gloom of the staircase he heard Kate’s sob in reply. Then they moved beyond where Clint could hear, and he was truly alone.

**{#}**  

By the time the moon had fully risen, the tower was freezing cold. Clint had noticed his breath had started to mist in front of him, and his thin tunic did little to keep him warm. He had not heard Kate leave, so could only pray that she had taken Lucky with her, as he had told her to do. He had no doubt that his father would put the dog out on it’s ear before feeding it so much as a scrap, but Kate would take good care of Lucky, and hopefully the dog would forget all about it’s old Master over time.

Clint tilted his head back against the cool stone, and tried to ignore the burn of tears in the corners of his eyes. He had not cried once all afternoon and evening, and did not care to start now. He was terrified, yes, but there was no reason as yet to grieve. For all he knew, the man only needed a caretaker, or a chess partner, and Clint may end up living a very comfortable life as the prisoner of a Monster. 

But it was difficult to see the positives from the cold stone floor where he sat, his bow and quiver, the last remnants of his previous life, across his lap. 

From the staircase, though, there came a murmur of sound, and Clint lifted his head away from the stone, crawling forward to peer between the bars trying to see if he could spot anything. There was a glow coming from the stairs, like a lit candle making its way to him.

“-he finds out, both of us will be in trouble!” a distant voice whispered, and there was an answering snort.

“What will he do? Pull us apart for scraps? I don’t think he has the nerve to touch us,” came a scathing reply, and Clint’s eyebrows shot up.

“… Yes, he’d have to look at us first,” said the first voice, sounding resigned. The pair rounded a corner, and again Clint could only see two figures covered in shadow.

“What do you want?” he called out, and the figure stopped in their tracks.

“Shouldn’t he be asleep?” said the first voice again, to it’s companion, and there was a hum of agreement.

“I should think so. Don’t normal men sleep at night?” the companion asked, and Clint rolled his eyes.

“I can hear you, you know!” he shouted back and one of the figures slumped a little, as though letting out a heavy sigh. The companion continued towards the cell, before the first figure caught up with him. 

“Well, be quiet, will you? You don’t want the Master finding us here,” the companion said, and they finally entered the small amount of light Clint had to see by. Clint gaped at them.

In front of him were two very elaborate, very beautiful Automatons. Clint had seen something like them intravelling show, but nothing as detailed. Both were shaped like men, though of different heights and builds, and if Clint had spotted them from a distance, he wouldn’t have doubted that they were human. But close up he could see the faint pulse of cogs working under the sheath like material that covered them, which looked like skin. One had dark hair and eyes the colour of a spring sky, a beard close cropped on his chin, and then other was blond and broad, his expression set in a frown.

“What are you?” Clint breathed at them, and they exchanged glances.

“Rude, isn’t he?” the one with dark hair asked the blond one, who only sighed and rolled his eyes. 

“Hurry up, please! I don’t like this and I’m only here because otherwise you’ll tell this man everything,” he replied, gesturing at Clint. The movement was fluid and human-like, except for a second where it seemed like the Automatons elbow mechanism caught and his arm jerked awkwardly.

“You’re so whiney,” sneered his companion, his nose wrinkling. He reached for the stone wall and released the handle, the cell door swinging open with a creak. Clint scrambled to his feet, swinging his bow and quiver onto one shoulder and then tucking his arms around himself to keep what little warmth he had left. The blond one surveyed him with a sympathetic twist of the mouth.

“Look at him, he’s freezing!” he said, and he stepped forward, reaching to take Clint’s arm. Clint involuntarily flinched away and the Automaton stopped and frowned.

“That’s what happens when you shut a human being in a stone cell in the draughtiest tower in this place,” the other one replied, adjusting his hold on the candelabra in his hand. He quirked an eyebrow, and Clint saw something under his ‘skin’ move into place. They were almost too life-like, and something about them made him want to look closer but look away at the same time. “Well, are you coming?” the Automaton asked him and Clint let out a shuddering breath. He shivered.

“Who are you?” he asked, and the Automatons exchanged another look.

“We’re companions to the Master,” the blond one said, and the one with dark hair scoffed again.

“If you can call us that,” he said in an undertone, and the one standing in front of Clint shot him a stern look.

“My name is Steve, this is Tony,” he said, jerking a thumb first at himself, then the dark-haired one. “We’ve come to take you to a more comfortable room,” he added, looking over the cell Clint had been sat in for the last few hours. There wasn’t so much as a tuft of straw for padding, and now that he was stood up again, Clint’s legs and backside were rife with pins and needles. He staggered slightly.

“What, a luxury cell?” Clint said sarcastically, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. Tony grinned behind Steve.

“I like him,” he said approvingly, while Steve looked upwards, as though asking the Heavens for help. Apparently no one was paying attention to Steve’s torment, for Tony continued. “Let’s keep him. He’ll keep the Master on his toes,” 

“I suppose that’s whats going to happen,” Clint said, resigned. Both Automatons looked at him, a bit awkward now. Clint shifted uncomfortably under their gaze. “I traded places with my… friend. I’ll be here for the rest of my days,” he murmured quietly, and there was a painful silence in the moments that followed. He was startled when Steve touched his arm, but he didn’t shy away this time. He looked up and saw Steve’s blue eyes and open expression, and forgot about the mechanics underneath it all. He looked kind, and friendly, and Clint knew that if he had met someone who was human and looked exactly like Steve, they’d be fast friends. 

“We’ll show you to your room,” Steve prompted him gently, and Tony nodded before leading the way out of the tower. Clint followed Tony with Steve bringing up the rear as they wound their way back down the steep spiral staircase, pausing on a narrow landing so that Tony could pull back a thin tapestry to reveal a hidden passage. They followed that out to the other end, which opened up onto a large landing, the walls of which were covered in dusty paintings and threadbare tapestries.

“This place…” Clint murmured, reaching out a hand to touch a tapestry of a Unicorn. The Unicorn was now a dull grey, the white fibres faded and worn from the passing years. He looked over and Steve was looking sad.

“It used to be a wonderful place,” he said, before bowing his head. “Come along - it’s late, and I’m sure you will want to rest,” and then he strode off down a dimly lit corridor, Tony following. Clint jogged to keep up, until Steve paused outside a tall wooden door, which gold leaf was flaking off. “This will be your room for the duration of your stay with us,” Steve said, before twisting the latch on the door and pushing it open, slipping inside. Clint followed him, his jaw dropping open.

The room was easily the size of the cottage he had grown up in, and a hundred times more beautiful. A large canopied bed jutted out into the middle of the room, and the furnishings were made of smooth and polished oak, the dark burnish of which glimmered in the glow of the firelight from the hearth. On the ceiling, an elaborate fresco was painted, showing a God waiting by a poolside for a nymph while she bathed. There were golden highlights around the room, the firelight making it flare and flicker. The whole room was grander beyond Clint’s imagination.

He gaped as he turned in a slow circle, drinking in the sight of the room. While Steve disappeared behind a small door set into the wall beside the fireplace, Tony set the candelabra down on a carved oak table against one of the walls, and went to the bed, turning down the sheets.

“You don’t have to do that,” Clint said, going to stop Tony, who gave him a half-smile in return.

“It’s part of my job,” he explained, flicking his wrist to pull the sheets taut. Clint caught a whiff of cedar and lavender, and a wave of exhaustion and sadness ran over him. He was tired, more tired than he could ever remember being, and beneath that was the gnawing sensation of sadness. He had given up _everything_ to stay in this castle forever. 

Tony smoothed back the sheets and removed a long-handled copper pan, which Clint recognised as a bed warmer. Steve came back from wherever he had disappeared to, fabric draped over his arm. He laid it at the foot of the bed and Clint recognised it as a nightshirt. Steve reached for his tunic, but Clint took a large step back, his hands jumping to his chest.

“Thank you, but I’ll do that,” he said, and Steve only nodded.

“Very well. Please leave your clothes in here, we can launder them for you. And one of our number is a very skilled seamstress, she can make some things for you,” Steve said and Clint only nodded. With one last look at him, Steve and Tony departed, slipping out into the door corridor of the castle, the door closing with a _snick_ behind them. 

Clint, alone again, dropped his bow and quiver by the door, pausing to let the chilled air pinch at the thin fabric of his undershirt before taking the nightshirt over to the hearth to get changed in front of the fire. He looked at the flames as he stripped, lying his ragged and worn looking clothes across a fine plush chair next to the fire. He shrugged on the nightshirt, and the warm was soft and warm against his tired skin. He made his way back to the bed, dancing over the cold dark wood of the floor, scrambling up onto the mattress and lying down. The bed warmer had left it’s mark, a hot patch near Clint’s feet which radiated up into the rest of the bed. He stretched this way and that, fluffing the pillow behind his head and tugging the sheets and thick quilt over his body. He felt almost too comfortable, and then Clint laughed under his breath- he had never slept on something so soft before, it was no wonder it all felt very strange!

With a sigh, and tears prickling at the corner of his eyes, Clint fixed his gaze on the gentle flickering of the candelabra and slowly drifted to sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! Once again, sorry to disappoint, but there is no singing and dancing. Many thanks, as always, to [Sara Holmes](http://captn-sara-holmes.tumblr.com/) for her continued and unwavering support.

**{Chapter 2}**

He woke up with the dawn, though not purposefully. For years he had been up at the first light to fetch water and stoke the only fire in their small cabin, before his Father woke up and stumbled to the Tavern. It took a moment for Clint to orientate himself, stretching beneath the covers, the nightshirt bunched up around his middle. He shook himself slightly and then pushed himself up to sitting. 

The fire was still crackling merrily in the hearth, keeping the room warm, but the candelabra had been taken away from the table and his clothes were gone from the chair he had left them on. The bow and quiver were gone as well. Clint frowned and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cool beneath his feet, and Clint stood for a moment, taking in his surroundings in the daylight.

The sun caught the gilt around the room, highlighting the door frame and mouldings around the ceiling. The room was grander in the daylight, and Clint felt very small and out of place, shuffling his feet awkwardly, trying to figure out what to do next. He was saved from padding across the room in the night shirt by a knock on the door. 

There was a pause while he tried to think of what to say and then he cleared his throat and called out to whoever it was to come in. The door clicked open and a slim woman with an apron tied around her waist and a tall man with dark skin walked in, the woman carrying a tray.

“Good morning,” she said cheerily and Clint could only stare at her. Like Steve and Tony from last night, these two were more Automatons. Clint could see cogs ticking in their temples and metal joints in their hands. He felt his heart beat faster, a tinge of fear at the strange creeping up on him, but he tried to ignore it.

The woman sat the tray down on the oak side table, between an empty vase and an elaborate but dusty mirror. “I hope you slept well,” she says, smoothing her apron over her skirt. “My name is Janet, but you can call me Jan. This is James, but we all call him Rhodey,” she gestured at the man, who inclined his head at Steve. He looked very severe and held himself like a Soldier, with a painfully straight back. There was an awkward pause and then Jan turned back to the tray and lifted the silver cover off one of the plates. “Please, have some breakfast,” she told Clint, who edged closer to look at what was on the tray. Fresh flakey pastries on a platter and chilled fruit, the likes of which Clint had never seen, in a bowl, with eggs and sausages, piping hot, on a plate. A fine glass of milk was in one corner of the tray, while a pot of tea, and accompanying cup and saucer, was on the other. 

“This is… far too much,” Clint said in a quiet murmur, though he knew, given half a chance, he would devour all of it. Jan’s face fell and even Rhodey looked away, but Clint tried to give them a reassuring smile. “Thank you, it does look delicious. I’ve just never had this much food to myself before,” he said, and this seemed to be the wrong thing to say because Jan’s lower lip trembled and Rhodey looked as though he would prefer to sink through the floor. 

“Well, you won’t have that problem here,” Jan said, tilting her chin up confidently. “We have plenty of food and more,” she said, bustling off to the small side door that Steve had come in and out of the night before, leaving Clint with Rhodey. 

“Please, eat,” Rhodey said in a deep, warm voice, pointing to the tray. Clint edged closer and reached for a slice of fruit, popping it into his mouth and chewing. There was a burst of sweetness over his tongue and he made a small delighted noise, causing the corner of Rhodey’s mouth to twitch in amusement. Clint looked around for somewhere to sit and decided on the chairs in front of the fire, picking up the tray and taking it over. He gestured for Rhodey to join him, and proffered the tray at him. “No, thank you. I don’t need to eat,” Rhodey said with a smile, though he took the other seat. 

“What do you do around here?” Clint asked between mouthfuls of pastries and tea. Rhodey shifted in his seat, glancing over at the door Jan had disappeared through. 

“We maintain the house and the grounds, and look after the Master, if he allows us,” Rhodey said, a tinge of sadness to his voice. Clint frowned.

“ _If_ he allows you?” he asked and Jan came out of the small side-room, some fabric draped over her arm. Rhodey gave her a look and she turned away, looking out the window.

“He doesn’t like to look at us,” she said in a small voice, and Rhodey’s mouth turned down. Clint stopped chewing for a moment and looked between them both.

“Who… who is he?” he asked them and they exchanged a look. Rhodey stood and left the room, his head bowed. Jan turned to face Clint, her fingers twisting the fabric over her arm.

“He was a Prince once,” she said in a quiet voice and then she seemed to give herself a little mental shake. She gave him a small smile and patted the fabric. “I’ll be back soon with some new clothes for you. In the meantime, I’ve filled a bath for you in the next room. Please, make yourself comfortable,” she said, and then she left him too.

Clint finished the tray of food and poured himself another cup of tea into a delicate china cup, taking it with him into the next room. It was a small dressing room, but the rails where the clothing was supposed to hang were empty, and the elaborate vanity was covered in dust. There was the faint aroma of fine powders and sweet-smelling spices, previously used to keep the clothes smelling fresh, now only a lingering memory. 

Through the dressing room was a clean wash room, where a large copper tub filled with steaming water was sat near the lit fire. Clint dragged a stool from the corner of the room over to the edge of the tub and rested his tea there, and then pulled the night shirt up and over his head, leaving him standing naked in the mostly empty room. He climbed into the tub and let the water swallow him up to his shoulders, feeling it lap over his skin and soothe him. 

The Monster of his childhood stories really existed. He was a man, albeit obviously not an entirely human one. And on top of that - he was a Prince. Once? Wouldn’t he still be a Prince? And the Automatons themselves. Who had created them? What was their purpose in the castle? All the Automatons Clint had met so far were sad and quiet, subdued in a very human way. He felt unnerved by them, but also very sympathetic to them as well. How hard it must be, to have been created to serve the very person who rejected you. 

Clint knew something of that pain.

He spent a while idling in the tub, letting his eyes slip closed and resting. He found some sweet smelling oils and soaps left on the edge of the tub and he washed his hair and skin, letting the sweet tangy smell of sugar and lemongrass envelope him. 

When his skin started to wrinkle and the water grew cold, Clint clambered out of the tub and found a soft cloth to try himself with. He left the tub full of water, unsure how to empty it, and took his empty teacup back to the room, wearing his nightshirt again. 

His bed had been made and the fire stoked, and some new clothes waited for him, draped over one of the armchairs in front of the fire. He reached out and felt them, rolled the fabric between his fingers. Soft underclothes, sturdy breeches made out of warm wool and a cotton shirt. It was plain and simple, yet it was the finest clothing Clint had ever worn. He dressed in front of the fire, smoothing his hands down the fabric, enjoying the feel of it against his skin. No shoes had been left for him, so he pulled on his own supple boots. He left the nightshirt draped over the back of the same armchair, and left the room.

The castle was just as cold and foreboding as it had been the night before, but the cold sunlight that filtered through the dusty windows revealed more of the house than he had previously seen. The walls were clean stone, with elaborate tapestries hanging from them, and iron sconces flickering. He followed the long corridor his room was on, stopping to look now and then at the tapestries, until he came to a grand hall, which was lined with portraits. 

He stopped to look at each one, and from the third, he recognised Jan. A beautiful woman with tightly curled brown hair tucked under a cap watched him from the portrait, her hand resting on some asian-patterned fabrics, her dress pale pink and elaborate. Her lips were parted as though she was about to ask something, and her eyes caught the light, even from the oils alone. A plaque hewn into the wood of the frame announced it’s subject as ‘ _Mme Janet Van Dyne, fille de Duc d’Aquitaine_ ’. A date underneath was scratched out. 

Clint moved on. The next portrait was one of Tony, looking austere sitting astride a horse, a flag planted into the battlefield dirt next to him. ‘ _Anthony Stark, Comte de Champagne_ ’ with another scratched out date. He looked proud, his hair and beard neatly trimmed and perfectly painted, and Clint studied his portrait for a little longer. 

He moved on down the corridor, studying the faces of long ago people, the elaborate fashions they wore, trying to find a familiar nose or smile amongst them. There, in the centre, above a carved marble mantelpiece, was a portrait of the Monster - the Prince. His hair was long, tied back with a piece of ribbon, and his face was clear of any of the troubles the man that Clint had seen last night seemed to have. His eyes were grey, like a winter storm, and his chin was lifted proudly, his hand resting on a pile of books on a table next to him. 

The plaque where his name should have been was stripped from the frame entirely. 

The Prince looked handsome, and kind. Clint felt a touch of warmth for him, and was reminded of what his mother had said. _He was a good man who had done Monstrous things, but that did not make him a Monster._

The portrait itself was covered in dust, but Clint could see finger marks on the edges of the frame and the mantelpiece itself. Had it been the Monster, come to reflect on his own past and gaze at the glory of what once was? 

Clint stepped away from the portrait and shook his head. Idle fantasies had not help him previously and they wouldn’t do so now. He hastened along the gallery, not looking at any further images of long dead friends and family. At the end of the gallery there was only a small empty room, but tucked into the wall was another door, and through there was another staircase, though this was made of wood and seemed ricketier than the ones Clint had seen before. He followed it down for a few flights of stairs, determined to reach the bottom. The smell of cooking and warmth wafted his way and by the time he reached the bottom landing, he was sure he was near the kitchens.

Sure enough, through a stone archway that was obviously hewn from the ground the castle stood on, was a large kitchen. Built for cooking to feed courtiers and grand feasts, it now looked surprisingly bare. Plates and cups and wine glasses were pilled onto roughly hewn wooden shelves set into the stone walls, and while a fire crackled merrily in a large open hearth, there was nothing cooking on the spit above it. The smell must have lingered from his earlier breakfast.

“Hello?” he called into the dim room and there was a rustle in another dark room beyond, before a woman with red hair came from it, stepping into the dim light of the kitchen. Clint jumped, surprised to see her, and the corners of her mouth twitched. Her hair was short and curly, and she did not wear a woman’s dress but men’s breeches and shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, with well-worn boots on her feet. Clint raised an eyebrow at her attire, but again noticed the tick of cogs in her face and hands and so didn’t say anything. 

“Can I help you?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, blocking his path through to the next room. She was not very tall, maybe to his shoulder-height but no taller, though there was an energy to her which suggested she did not suffer fools gladly. Clint looked around for some excuse as to why he was in the kitchens. 

“I was just... exploring,” he offered and she gave him a look up and down, quirking an eyebrow.

“You’re the Master’s guest, aren’t you?” she asked, tilting her head back a little, her red curls falling away from her face. Her features were small, almost doll-like, and she was incredibly pretty, but her body language suggested she would sooner slit Clint’s throat than show him any sort of vulnerability.

“I am," Clint said, bobbing his head once in agreement, though he frowned. He was not the Prince’s guest, he was the Prince’s _prisoner_. He had been given a bedchamber and food, and had, thus far, not been treated unkindly by the Prince’s servants, but he had an feeling that it may not always be this way. “I am Clint Barton,” 

“I know of your name, _Monsieur_ Barton,” she replied, her hands falling to her sides. “I am Natasha Romanoff,” she said, bending at the waist to give a brief bow, and Clint’s eyebrows quirked upwards. “I was the Spymaster for the Prince,” 

Clint smiled. “The Prince was in need of spies?” he asked and Natasha’s mouth curled into a small smirk.

“All Princes are,” she replied, before stepping to the side. “You will end up in the wine cellars if you continue this way. Are you looking for something in particular?’ she asked, gesturing behind her. Clint thought for a second.

“I’d like to go outside,” he said and she nodded, stepping around him to point out another hallway that was hidden behind the staircase he had come down. “If you follow this hallway to the end, you will find a door to the gardens,” she told him and he thanked her before heading down the hallway, glancing back only briefly to find that she had sunk back into the shadows once more. 

At the end of the hallway was a door made of iron bars. The latch was rusted and it took some effort to prise the door open, but Clint did so, stepping out into the daylight and fresh air. There was still snow on the ground and chill in the air, but he stood for a moment and enjoyed the sun on his face, pleased to have survived the night, and then he looked around.

He had come out in what was obviously once the kitchen gardens. Herbs and vegetables grew in neat rows, and a glasshouse of fruit was at the back of the enclosed garden. He took in the low stone walls surrounding the kitchen garden, and the forest beyond, and thought quickly - could he make it? If he ran, could he escape into the forrest and be home before anyone had realised he had gone?

“I would not try, if I were you,” came a deep voice from behind him and Clint spun around, only to find himself confronted with a looming man. He was tall and broad in a way that suggested a life of heavy lifting, and his blonde hair was long and pulled back in a low ponytail at the base of his neck. But, like the other inhabitants of the castle, Clint could see cogs tick in his temples and work in his hands, and this man was obviously another Automaton. Despite the cold, he was wearing no cloak, though even now Clint could feel the cold biting at the tip of his nose and the tops of his ears. 

“I wasn’t-,” Clint started, but stopped before he said anything further. It was fairly obvious what he was planning to do, even to an outside observer, and to make an excuse would almost be an admission of guilt. 

“We have eyes in the forest. It would not be wise to run away from the Prince,” the man continued, almost as though Clint hadn’t said anything. There was a pause, a beat of silence, before the man spoke again. “I am Thor,” he said with a quick bow. “I am the Groundskeeper,”

“Clint,” Clint replied, and Thor nodded.

“I am aware. You are staying here at the Prince’s pleasure?” he asked and Clint frowned, unsure of what that meant. Thor smiled, and it was wide and friendly. “You are a guest of the Prince, unless I have misunderstood?” he rephrased and Clint, grudgingly, nodded. “I hear you are skilled with the bow and arrow,” Thor continued and Clint nodded again.

“I am,” he confirmed, because he would not be modest about it. His skill with the bow and arrow was unparalleled, and he had worked hard to get as skilled as he was. 

“Excellent,” Thor said with another smile, “We are in need of a sharp shooter. The wild rabbits have become too accustomed of the gardens, and we are rather overrun. Do you have time now?” Thor asked and Clint frowned.

“I would help you, Thor, but I do not have my bow and quiver. They were taken from my rooms in the night,” he said and Thor inclined his head.

“They were brought to me, to clean and repair, though the Prince has asked that you don’t receive them back until you can be trusted,” Thor explained, and Clint frowned. 

“ _Trusted_?” he asked, and Thor gave him a half-smile. 

“Trusted to not escape, much like you just did,” he said and Clint felt the fear spike. If, like Thor said, they had eyes in the forest, how far would he have gotten before someone had found him? How close would he have been to home? 

“I have a bow and arrow you can use. They will not be as familiar in your hands, but they will suffice for the task,” Thor said, nodding more to himself than to Clint. “Come along. We will get you a cloak as well,” he said and Clint, unable to argue, followed in Thor’s wake.

**{#}**

He had spent the afternoon with the Groundskeeper, and as Thor had promised, he had given Clint a bow (and one singular arrow) to help hunt the rabbits that were ravaging the gardens. Having only one arrow made the process slow, because for every rabbit killed, the arrow would have to be removed for Clint to use it again, but Thor waited patiently as Clint lined up shots throughout the day. As the sun began to set over the chateau, Thor ushered Clint back into the kitchens. 

“Jan,” he called as they entered, and Jan looked up from where she had been peeling carrots. The shavings, Clint could see from the wooden bowl in her lap, were all equal in size and length. “We have rabbits,” Thor said, holding up some by their ears. Jan smiled and put the bowl on the side next to her stool, before standing.

“Thank you Thor. These will be perfect for the stew tonight,” She reached out a hand and took the rabbits from Thor, though her arm did not sink with their weight - rather, she held them aloft as Thor had, and it appeared to take her no effort at all. Clint frowned at her, but either she didn’t see him or was ignoring him. 

“I will return to the grounds. Good evening, Jan, Clint,” Thor said, bowing before leaving. Jan laid the rabbits on one of the large blocks of wood that were laid on the long counters on three sides of the room, and turned back to Clint.

“You should bathe and change. The Prince is expecting you to join him for dinner,” Jan said and Clint felt the blood drain from his face.

“No,” he said and Jan frowned. 

“I’m sorry?” she asked, and Clint shook his head. 

“I won’t be joining your Master for dinner. I can’t - I won’t,” he said and then he turned on his heel and ran out of the kitchen, leaving Jan gaping after him. He launched himself up the stairs, two at a time, and he did not hear any steps behind him.

He left the staircase at the second landing, taking the first door he saw out. He found himself in a large ballroom, the door to the staircase hidden behind a mirrored panel that was stained and aged with time. He shut the door and tried to catch his breath.

It was one thing, to be the prisoner of the Master and expect to spend your days in isolation, alone in his remote chateau - it was another thing entirely to act as though that imprisonment was merely a visit, that he was a guest who would soon return to his own home and be left with only pleasant memories. 

He doubted he would ever see his home again.

Clint felt a clench in his stomach that nearly caused him to double-over, but he resisted. Now would not be the time for tears, and there would be no time hereafter. This was how he was to live now. It was a finer than anything he had ever experienced before, but a fine cage is still a cage. 

He took a few steadying breaths and walked deeper into the ballroom. It was covered in mirrors along two walls, the one with the door he had walked through, and the one opposite the floor-length windows which looked out onto the gardens, overgrown as they were. He looked up at the large chandelier that was hung over head, though some strands of crystals were swaying gently in a gentle breeze from a draught somewhere, and turned in a lazy circle, surveying the clouds painted on the walls, framed by the gallery on the floor above. 

He felt dizzy and exhausted, and he stopped turning to sit down heavily on the floor, making himself small in the large space. He pulled his knees up to his chest and heaved a deep sigh. 

“Are you quite well?” came a voice from above him and Clint for one, delirious moment, thought God was speaking to him before he looked up and noticed another Automaton looking down at him from the gallery. Clint could have laughed, because he was drained and tired and confused from all these people who were _not_ people living in this castle. This Automaton a man, with long black hair hanging down about his face and a narrow, pointed face with narrow, pointed features. He held a book in one hand and he was looking down at Clint with a mixed expression of annoyance and concern. 

“You must excuse me, _Monsieur_ , I have had a rather strange day,” Clint called back in reply and the Automaton said nothing. Clint struggled for words for a moment and then sighed. “I find myself in an enviable position, and yet I wish for nothing more than to return home,” he added and the Automaton shrugged one shoulder. 

“What the heart wants and where your feet lead you are not necessarily the same thing,” he replied and then he stepped back from the gallery with no further explanation. Clint stared for a minute, half-expecting him to come back, but he did not return, and so Clint remained on the floor, and with his thoughts, for a while longer.

**{#}**

The sun had fully set by the time Clint finally stood up from the ball room floor and made his way to the large wooden doors that led further into the Castle. He saw his reflection as he passed the mirror lined wall and he ignored it. 

The door opened into the rundown foyer that he had entered the chateau through the night before. He looked again at the cracks in the marble and thought about what could have caused that damage. Did one of the Automatons fall? Or were they thrown? He stood next to one and looked upwards to see the landings of the grand staircase, going up several floors. He shuddered and stepped away.

He truly had no idea where his rooms were in relation to the foyer, for he had found Kate in the cells and then followed Steve and Tony to the room he had been given. So, with nothing to guide him, he began to take the stairs and followed the branch to the left. It was darker in this section of the castle, and the cobwebs more numerous, as though whoever occasionally cleaned was not permitted to enter this area. 

Still, Clint climbed the stairs, taking note of the creaks underfoot. Around him seemed perfectly still, as though he were walking through air that had not been disturbed for hundreds of years. It was the air that surrounded him before he took that killing shot, the arrow pointed and deadly. 

In hindsight, he should have known then. 

Higher he climbed, past the first and second floors, the marble of the grand staircase in the foyer giving way to wood that was warped underfoot. The darkness and oppressive feel of this part of the castle pressed in on him at all sides until he felt like he could barely breathe through it, until, finally, he reached the top landing.

He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the upper floor, and continued along the corridor to a wide oak door set into the stone walls. He paused outside, thinking he should knock but based on the condition of this side of the castle, it had long since been abandoned and it was far more likely that the room beyond the door was also empty. He grasped the wrought iron handle and turned it, opened the door with a loud _creak._

The room was dark, with no candles to light it. Scattered across the floor were books and papers, and the half-tester bed was unmade, the covers pulled back and rumpled as though whoever slept there had just kicked them off and left. 

He turned around and nearly yelled in fright. In front of him, hung on the wall, was a large portrait, seemingly of a family. An austere looking man stood next to his pretty wife, his hand on the shoulder of what might have been a small boy, only Clint could not confirm as the boy’s face had been torn into, the canvas ripped from its frame. Clint stared, horrified, at the ruination of this picture - what could possibly have happened to the subjects? 

There was a _creak_ behind him, and Clint whirled around to see the looming figure of the Monster behind him, in the doorway.

“What are you doing in here?” The Monster said, his voice strangled. Clint could say nothing, only gape as the Monster strode into the room. His movement was purposeful, but there was something wrong, something that Clint couldn’t identify, and it made his fear spike. 

“I-I was just-,” Clint spluttered, trying to explain himself, but the Monster swiped his arm, his metal arm, across a table and sent a fine china vase of dead flowers crashing into the opposite wall.

“GET OUT! GET OUT!” The Monster howled, and Clint, without hesitation, fled. 

He tripped down the stairs and flung himself around landings until he finally reached the foyer, his heart racing and his blood pounding in his ears. He gasped for breath, trying to slow his pounding heart, but it was no good. Fear and adrenaline coursed through him, making every breath catch and hitch. 

His head spun. Had he entered the Monster’s lair? Who were the subjects of that portrait, and why was the child’s face clawed away? Had the Monster killed them in order to live in this castle? He had been a Prince, and Prince and Kings took things that were not rightfully theirs, Clint knew. 

They had taken Barney after all. 

Slowly, his heart began to calm and his blood no longer rushed. His breathing steadied and slowly, though his legs were still unsure under him after carrying him down the stairs, he took the opposite branch of the staircase to the upper floors. 

It was on the third floor that he found the corridor with the unicorn tapestry, and finally, his room. Exhausted, Clint shut the door and climbed onto the bed, not removing his muddied boots from his day in the gardens with Thor, or any of his clothing. With his feet dangling off the edge of the bed, Clint lay on his front and fell into an exhausted, terrified sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me at [tumblr](http://dwell-the-brave.tumblr.com/), and [twitter](https://twitter.com/dwell_the_brave).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! You can find me at [tumblr](http://dwell-the-brave.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/dwell_the_brave).


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